


Pleasant Company

by lovetincture



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Casual Sex, F/M, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27817300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: Sam strikes out with his brother. Rowena makes it better.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Rowena MacLeod/Sam Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 49





	Pleasant Company

The room is spinning. There’s a light show in here, sounds and colors all on delay, reaching his mind a few seconds too late. Every blink feels like a strobe light. Every movement is a stop-motion animation. On. Off.

Sam hasn’t gotten this blitzed in—God, he can’t even remember. It’s been a while. It’s been too long. The thought makes him laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest cavity, coming out of his mouth echoing and strange. It bounces around the halls of their library, loud and discordant. It startles him, knocks him off his feet, but he doesn’t fall.

“Whoa. Christ. Had enough there, Sammy?”

And it’s Dean, Dean’s voice and Dean’s hands, strong and sure. Dean’s arms hauling him back to his feet when he starts to list to the side, slumping like a puppet with his strings cut.

Dean deposits him in a chair, swearing, muttering things like _weigh a fucking ton_ and _getting too old for this shit._

Sam blinks owlishly up at him.

It makes so much sense in this moment. It makes too much sense and not enough. Of course Dean is here—where else would he be? Of course he’s here, catching Sam, keeping him safe, just like always. And yet it’s strange—strange in the way everything is, just now. In that how? And why? And who could ever?

He’s staring, so he sees Dean’s mouth do something complicated, mobile lips twisting down as he peers closer, getting right into Sam’s face.

“You alright there, Sammy?”

And Sam. Sam has just had so much to drink. The room is spinning. Dean’s _eyes_ are right there, green flecked with brown, unrealistically beautiful when they’re up so close.

“I—” he says.

And he means _I love you so much_ and he means _I don’t understand how we exist in two separate bodies._ He _means_ it just then. He just doesn’t know how to say it, and his equilibrium is shot, and it’s so easy to just tip forward and press his mouth to Dean’s.

It’s such a bad kiss. It’s artless, just smashing two lips together. He slumps forward into Dean as much as he leans, grasping at the collar of Dean's shirt to keep himself upright with twin fistfuls of fabric.

Dean shoves him off—not gently, not at all—spans a hand across Sam’s chest and shoves him straight back into the chair, and Sam’s panting, staring at the shiny, bright smear of spit he left across Dean’s upper lip. He’s blushing; he can feel it in the way his cheeks burn like fire.

“What the hell?” Dean asks, and he doesn’t sound mad.

He sounds _confused._ It’s the same tone of voice he uses to say things like ‘why is there an imaginary man in our kitchen making marshmallow sandwiches?’ but he’s waiting for an answer.

“Sam,” he says. “Sam, what the hell?”

And there’s the anger, right there, as expected, right on schedule. There it is, picking up speed and sweeping away the wide, helpless eyes, the utter _shock_ that Sam would do such a thing.

“I—” Sam starts. “I,” he finishes dumbly.

He doesn’t know how to explain this. There’s no explaining this.

Dean stares at him, stares at him like he’s never seen Sam before in his life, and that hurts. It still does manage to hurt. He turns on his heel and walks out the room without another word, offering no explanations of his own, not sticking around to hear what Sam’s whiskey-addled mind can cook up.

Sam hears a door slam down the hall. He thinks it’s kind of miraculous that he can still surprise his brother after all these years.

* * *

He gets himself to bed with a considerable amount of banging and swearing. He slams his knee into his desk and cusses a blue streak before whumping face-down onto his mattress. He wills himself not to think of anything, to give in to the comforting eddies of oblivion beckoning. He’ll pass out and deal with this in the morning, and then—well, it won’t be _better._ It’ll still be fucking terrible, maybe the worst aftermath of the worst thing he’s ever done, but it’ll be—he’ll be—fuck it, he’ll deal with it in the morning.

Only his body isn’t cooperating. The all-consuming buzz in his brain is starting to slip away, and left in its place is cold, hard reality. The tight knot of dread in his stomach grows and grows, and he thinks of finding the bottle he’d left behind—might as well kill it, might as well drink himself unconscious. That’s more Dean’s bag than his, but it’s looking like that kind of a washout of a night.

He makes his way unsteadily back to the library, hunting in the half-light for the bottle of whiskey he swears he’d left right there. Maybe Dean took it, Sam thinks, and wouldn’t that be just like him? Taking everything Sam has to give, and then taking more. His heart. His life. Now even his goddamn alcohol, because Sam isn’t allowed to have anything of his own.

He doesn’t even know what he means by that, and he sighs, frustrated.

“Samuel?”

It’s an unfamiliar name in a familiar lilting voice. It’s the absolute last thing Sam wants right now.

He turns around, hoping there’ll be nothing there at all, hoping this is just his mind playing a particularly unkind trick on him.

“Rowena.”

She, at least, looks amused. “Having a rough night?”

“I’m fine,” he says, feeling defensive and strangely caught out. This is _their_ bunker. He lives here. “What are you doing here?”

“Dean asked me to take a look at an artifact he’d found. Nasty bit of cursework, but not to worry, I cleared it right up.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart,” Sam deadpans.

Her lips curl into a catlike smile. “Well, it never hurts to be owed a favor.”

He shakes his head, not wanting to think of favors owed, not wanting to think of Rowena or witchcraft or anything more complicated than his bed.

“Did you and your brother have a little spat?”

Sam shakes his head, tired and already thinking of the fridge—he thinks there’s still most of a six-pack in there. Thinks he can manage to knock himself right out and deal with this tomorrow. He’s just tired.

“Rowena, go home.”

She shrugs. “I could. Or I could keep you company. You look like you could use it.”

“I don’t want it.” The denial is automatic, right there at the tip of his tongue. It’s what he’s supposed to say. Sam Winchester doesn’t fuck monsters because we all know how well that turns out, and a witch is just another kind of monster.

“Suit yourself,” Rowena says, perfectly easy.

Perfectly herself, and he hates it. He hates how easy it is for her, how easy it is to shrug it off her tiny shoulders, to breeze toward the exit without a care in the world because she isn’t part of this. Doesn’t have a brother fuming five doors down, probably blasting Metallica through outdated, shitty headphones, probably drinking Sam’s booze and hating him, hating him.

“Wait,” he says, stuttering forward, reaching out. He reaches and grabs nothing.

She turns around, slow and smooth, and a smile slicks itself over her face. She looks like the cat that got the canary, and oh, Sam is in so much trouble. He feels a hot lick of shame for having been played—for having been caught out needy and found wanting—and he can’t bring himself to care nearly as much as he should.

“Well. I’m listening,” she said. “What did you have in mind?”

* * *

There’s no negotiation to this. It isn’t _civil._ There’s no preamble. It’s nothing like what Sam would do if he picked a girl up in a bar. He leads Rowena back to his room, feeling for all the world like he’s doing something wrong, not nearly drunk enough for this.

And Rowena—she makes it easy. They get inside Sam’s room, and she reaches back and closes the door behind her. She trails a hand down the side of his face, down his chest, and he leans into it. His eyes flutter closed, and he _wants_ it. Wants her, and he forces his eyes back open.

“That’s it,” she coos. “You’ve had a hard night, haven’t you? You’re so alone. What a pretty, wounded thing.”

He catches her wrist as she raises it to cup his cheek.

“No?”

He can’t say it, so he shakes his head. Licks his lips.

He’s interested, though. Already stirring in his pants, despite the well of whiskey he’d drunk. He pulls her into him, gets his hands around her hips and ducks down to kiss her, and she’s so small, tiny all over. She feels breakable, and he’d worry about that if he hadn’t seen her take down men twice her size. Her magic could lay out a city, and she kisses like she talks, easy and clever. She kisses like she knows something he doesn’t, and Sam just wants to muss her up, wants to shatter that iron-clad composure.

He wants to drown in her.

He gets his hands in her hair, feeling the slippery silk of it trickling through like water. Like copper and blood and fire. She’s so _different._ She’s not at all like Dean. Even the slip-slide of her dress is different, satin instead of cheap poly-cotton, and it means Sam can’t forget for a second who he’s really with.

The reminder hurts more than it should.

Rowena nips his lip when his mind starts to wander, a sharp little bite that hurts too. Once that brings him back to himself, has him snarling and fisting his hand in her hair, pulling it tight against her scalp.

She grins at him, baring her teeth bright and feral. “Stay with me,” she says. “Pay attention.”

“Yeah,” he says. And then he’s groaning it into her mouth. “Yeah, I’m here. I’m good.”

And he is. He’s here. He’s good. He’s paying attention to the way her hands curl around his biceps, the pleased little hum she makes as she kneads her fingers into the muscles of his arm. She runs her fingers down his back, down the center of his spine, through the hair at the back of his neck, and it feels nice.

He sighs into it. Sighs again when she steps back and reaches behind her to undo her zipper. When her dress pools like water around her feet.

He groans, realizing she’s wearing nothing under it, and then it’s a dash to shed his own clothes, shucking boots and flannel, fingers tripping over his own buttons.

“Relax,” she says. “It isn’t a race. I’m not going anywhere.”

His insides are all knotted up, and his fingers are still stuttering over little buttons, but she moves his hands aside. Her fingers are cool and thin. He never stopped to consider that Rowena might run cold. He never got close enough to wonder.

He thinks of other people who run cold, fingers and breath like ice, and he shivers down to his bones.

“Stay with me,” Rowena says again, and it’s an invitation.

He takes it. He’s here.

She pushes his shirt off his shoulders, pausing to run her fingers over the ink of his tattoo. He’s had it remade so many times. She leans up on her toes to press a kiss to it, scraping her teeth lightly across his chest in a way that makes him shiver and arch up for more. He feels her smile against his skin.

“What am I going to do with you, Samuel?” she asks.

It’s rhetorical, but he’s still drunk. He’s still heartbroken. He’s still trying to be _here._ Exactly here and nowhere else—not the Cage with Lucifer, not down the hall with Dean.

“Whatever you want,” he says.

They both know it isn’t true, but it’s nice to pretend sometimes.

Her mouth curls up in a smile. “Eager. I like that in a man.”

“What else do you like?”

She laughs. “Oh, trust me, you’ll know.”

He’s sure he will. He smirks and grabs for her, pushing her onto the bed where she lands with a huff. His bed is small, but it’s big enough for this. He crawls up after her, sliding between her legs and pushing them apart. He dives in without warning, not wasting any time, just lapping at her like it’s his job, losing himself in the salty, wet heat of her.

He finds the spots that make her groan, that make her toes curl and her fingers yank on his hair until tears spring to his eyes. He drowns in her, eats her out until she’s murmuring _stop, stop,_ tugging on his hair to pull him back up.

He smears a wet, messy kiss against her mouth and slides into her while she’s still catching her breath, and they both groan at once.

It’s a lot. It’s so much, and right now he isn’t thinking of anything—not a damn thing. He stays there, unmoving. Hovering over her, adjusting to the feeling. It’s been so long, and he’s going to lose it.

Rowena waits for him, patient, looking up at him with those knowing eyes. When he starts to move, he does it gently.

She rolls her eyes at him. “Oh, Sam. Come on, I won’t break.”

She pinches him for good measure, a cruel, sharp bite under his ribs, and he bats her hand away. Grabs it and pins it above her head and drives into her like he really means it, with a hard thrust that knocks the headboard into the wall and sends her eyes rolling back in her head.

“That’s more like it,” she says with a wicked grin, and Sam grins back, smiling because it feels good. Because he’s here, with her, and they’re not friends, but they’re not enemies either.

She knows him, and he knows her or something close enough. She knows his worst secret, and she’s not turning him out of bed. It’s enough to go on.

Rowena wraps her legs around him and digs her heels into the small of his back, and Sam buries his face in her neck. Her hair is a curtain around them, sweet-smelling and soft like her skin. She’s hot and tight and wet around him, and he chases his orgasm, pounding into her while she digs sharp nails into his back and murmurs soothing endearments in his ear.

She’s not Dean, but in the end, it turns out that she doesn’t have to be.

Sam comes with a gasp, spilling into her with his head bowed low, unwilling to raise his head for long seconds. He holds himself up on his elbows so as not to crush her, pulling out and rolling over onto his back, still breathing hard through the comedown.

Rowena sighs and stretches, contented beside him. “Well then.” She smiles at him. “That was quite a ride. Your brother doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

Sam groans. He feels too open for this, too raw. He shudders and hides his face with a hand. “Don’t. Oh my god, why would you say that?”

She _laughs._

“Oh, relax, Sam. I’ve lived a long time. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. He’ll come around.” She rises with a last stretch, picking her dress up off the floor and pulling it over her head. Her hair is mussed, but it looks good on her. She pauses in the doorway. “But if you find yourself alone and lonely again, feel free to give me a call.”

He grimaces, lips twitching into something that might be an attempt at a smile. He had felt relaxed for a second there. He should’ve known it was too good to last, but he could’ve hoped it would last longer than a few seconds. He casts around the room, looking for his boxers or at least a pair of jeans.

Rowena waves him off. “You relax. Don’t worry about me. I’ll show myself out.”

Sam laughs. “And leave you unattended in the bunker? Nice try.”

She huffs, but there’s humor in it. A friendly twinkle in her eye, a twist to her lip. “Well, it was worth a try.”

Sam drags a pair of sweatpants over his hips. They’re his favorite pair, worn threadbare from too many washes.

“I’ll walk you out,” he says.

He does just that. They don’t kiss at the entrance to the bunker, but Rowena waggles her fingers goodbye, and Sam laughs, and it’s a near thing.

Sam does feel lighter after all. Just a little.

**Author's Note:**

> Say hello on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/lovetincture) if you want.


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